


Good Things

by daniko



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pre-Slash, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daniko/pseuds/daniko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>That goddamned kid! (Not a kid anymore.) What was worse was Derek walking right into his little wiles as if he didn’t know better and now he just wanted to bang his head against the wall for losing his cool – business as usual with Stiles Stilinski.</i>
</p><p>Prompt: “Stiles can't find his favourite jumper and insists Derek make use of his nose like a sniffer dog and help him find it. It's at Derek's place”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Things

**Author's Note:**

> So. Ages ago, when the teen wolf fandom decided to produce fic, art and meta to drown the haters, people were sending each other prompts and lovely messages and this one anon sent me a prompt, which I saved into a doc and promptly forgot all about it. This would be it.
> 
> The prompt was: “Stiles can't find his favourite jumper ~~and insists Derek make use of his nose like a sniffer dog and help him find it.~~ It's at Derek's place”. I changed it a bit to suit my nefarious purposes. ;)
> 
> Enjoy! ♥

It wasn’t a good life (as it once was) and it wasn’t an easy one, no; but it wasn’t a terrible one either. After all, Derek Hale was alive (though for how long is anyone’s guess), as were Cora and little Malia and Peter (always Peter, getting one up everybody else, _except that one time where it really mattered_ , but no, Derek is not thinking about it anymore, it’s over and done and dealt with by his alpha, so). The point being: it wasn’t a good life, but Derek was needed to see it through for his pack. (Not his pack, not the one he was born into.) And he was home. (Not his home.)

The problem with more than half the pack being teenagers was that, eventually, they would all leave for college (and they _will_ leave for college) . . . which left the adults and Derek to watch over Beacon Hills for a few years. Strategically speaking, Derek thought it might work, as he did a quick headcount in his head (not to forget anyone). Scott, Isaac, Ethan, Peter, Malia, Cora and the humans; Allison and Lydia, two halves of the same coin, a queen and her knight; Chris Argent and John Stilinski (good men, good hunters, good warriors, true betas); Melissa McCall (the mother). Stiles. 

Stiles, Lydia and Allison left for the east coast; Scott, Isaac and Cora remained near by and Malia was still catching up with eight years lost. With them (Stiles, Allison and Scott), went the beacon that called the supernatural to Beacon Hills . . . and the remarkable side of effect of this was that Derek had nothing else to do but to sit and brood.

*

“Ah, yes,” sighed Stiles dreamily, crouching down and placing his flat hand on the dirt of the sidewalk. “It’s good to be home.”

Scott – who was carrying a box of Stiles’ college books as if they were pillows – frowned. “Dude, gross,” he protested, before going into the building where they would be sharing a flat for the foreseeable future.

Stiles spared a glance at the truck they had loaded with their stuff (so much of it, oh god, how) and decided he would not be helping Scott to carry any of it, because he was human and frail and Scott had all that alpha strength thing going on for him, so . . . . Instead, he followed after Scott, saying, “Dude, not gross, the earth is totally welcoming us back. It missed us, it’s kind of cute. Besides, we totally should be thanking it from the bottom of our hearts for protecting the pack, because I totally did not want to come home to find god knows how many weird things—.”

“I was, at most, with traffic, one hour away from Beacon Hills, Stiles.” He gave Stiles a shitty grin. “As for the earth missing you, dude, it’s probably just gum on the sidewalk.”

Stiles glared at him and made a point of not moving an inch from their old couch – rescued from Mrs Withers’ basement, down the street from Dad’s –, while the asshole went to grab more boxes. A few minutes later, he was already bored out of his mind and wondering why the hell was taking Scott so long to come back with the next load, when he heard a hesitant knock on the door. Of course, because some things never change (although the knock is a fucking red flag that some other things _do_ ), it had to be _him_ , coming in with plastic bags from the Chinese place two streets over. Stiles decided it was imperative to be cool and pretend his stomach wasn’t dancing the conga to the rhythm of his accelerated heartbeat while trying to get his lungs and liver to join in the conga line . . . and, yes, he supposed he had mastered that feat now, so he should just—, “Hey, man,” he greeted, a bit breathlessly.

To be fair, Derek Hale was wearing eyeglasses—what.

“Hey, Stiles,” said Derek, in his worst (best) “I’m the alpha” voice; it was rough, low, dark and a bit beautiful, like its damned owner. God, but Stiles had hoped to be over this by now. It had been years, with only the occasional holiday in Beacon Hills and Derek’s presence had always a bit fleeting after they all left for college and not at all there in the last couple of years. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” said Stiles, because his Dad had taught him manners. “You’re—uh, you’ve brought lunch.”

Derek huffed, “How observant.” He started to set the table, only to realize there were no chairs; grumbling, as if that wasn’t expectable from people _who were just now moving in, thank you very much_ , Derek moved the food to the rackety coffee table and, instead of taking a seat, even the one farthest from Stiles, he looked like he was seriously considering making a run for it. It was enough to dispel some of Stiles nerves and maybe even rub his hands in glee, but hey – if other people’s (Derek’s) weaknesses made him giddy, well, Stiles never claimed not to be an asshole. A cute one, at the very least.

“Take a sit, dude.” Derek hesitated. “It’s better than going out there to help the wonder twins. You’d only get in the way, you know how they are. Energetic,” he added, in guise of explanation. “But hey, you work around here?” Stiles tried. “Doing what? Now that I think about it, _Tom’s Car Shop_ was around here somewhere—.”

“I do not work as a mechanic, Stiles,” Derek gritted out, looking extremely uncomfortable in his skin.

Stiles’ inner self was crying with joy at riling up Derek Hale after such a long time. “It’s just, what with those power vehicles you used to drive, I thought—although I suppose the market is also around h—.”

“I work at _Beacon Hills Gazette_ ,” snapped Derek, eyes flashing blue. _Score_ , Stiles cheered to himself. “I write the culture section and occasionally the lifestyle column—.”

“Say _what_? I didn’t know you had a—.”

“What, a college degree? I do, in English Language and Literature, so you can just shove it. God, you’re still an asshole,” grouched Derek, getting up and heading to the door.

It was a good thing he hadn’t taken his jacket off, thought Stiles, watching him leave, then Derek’s words registered. “Excuse you!” he shouted after Derek. “I meant a degree in Journalism, asshole! Besides, how does that even work, getting all riled up—inferiority complex, much?” Derek flipped him off, scowl in place on his beautiful face, before disappearing in the corridor.

A moment later, Isaac and Scott came in, each carrying two big boxes, stacked up, and wearing twin frowns of disapproval. “Did you have to start messing with him right away, Stiles?” demanded Scott, in his Very Disappointed voice. Isaac didn’t say anything, just stood acting as echo for Scott’s disapproval.

Stiles scowled. “Well, it’s not my fault he suddenly turned into Mr Sensitivity.”

“Well, his therapist did tell him to get away from toxic people,” said Isaac, pointedly.

Stiles blinked. “What therapist? I mean, I’m not _toxic_ , I don’t . . . I was joking, okay,” he finished glumly.

“Yeah, you might want to tone it down a notch. You know, find another way to pull his pigtails.”

“Nobody likes a smartass, Isaac,” Stiles said darkly, “no one.”

* 

That goddamned kid! (Not a kid anymore.) What was worse was Derek walking right into his little wiles as if he didn’t know better and now he just wanted to bang his head against the wall for losing his cool – business as usual with Stiles Stilinski. (What the hell is a Stiles, anyway?) Oh, and what was just the _worst_ : Stiles was their emissary and therefore to be guarded by the first beta . . . who just happened to be Derek. While the pack didn’t know this yet, Deaton would surely update Scott as soon as things settled. Derek already had a few of leads that had come up during his research for the Gazette. Something would have to give in, then, soon, perhaps sooner than Derek would have liked . . . .

*

“—again, Stiles?”

“Wassdat?”

“I said, drunk again, Stiles?” Lydia. Disapproval.

“Bah, too mu’sh Latin. Evil.”

“Latin is evil?” Isaac. Disbelief.

“Nah, jus’ calls ‘t.”

“. . . Goodnight, Stiles.” Scott. Alpha.

*

“Lydia tells me you are not doing your job.”

Derek sighed, pulling down the laptop screen to glance at Deaton standing in the doorway of his bullpen at the Gazette. Everybody else had left for lunch. “How would Lydia know?”

“Lydia is a remarkable young woman,” said Deaton, vaguely; then, focused on Derek with laser-sharp precision, “and she has made her mission to learn about pack dynamics. For example, she knows that the place of the First Beta is by the emissary, just as an emissary’s place is by the Alpha. So . . . .”

“So?”

“An exorcist needs an anchor, Derek, as much as an werewolf needs one. I expect to see you live up to your duty and Talia’s expectations.”

*

“Come in. Make yourself at home,” said Derek mechanically as he and Stiles entered his studio flat.

It was a testimony of the how gruesome the exorcism had been that Stiles was just staring into space instead of running his mouth off as usual and had been like this ever since they left the abandoned library’s basement. “You know,” Stiles said, deceptively casual, “when I talked to that guy, Deaton’s friend, about this, he didn’t really mention the kind of fight they put up.” Derek grunted in agreement. “God, I need a drink, but that way lies trouble, buddy, so my dad says, so I probably should just lay down really quiet and rest, or I don’t know, but sleep is totally not happening  tonight, no siree—.” 

“You can stay here, if you want,” said Derek slowly. “I doubt I can sleep either.”

“You should totally have not been there, but do you ever listen to me? Nope, you don—.”

“I know you know why I had to be there, because Isaac told me Scott had told you—.”

“Oh god, it’s middle-school all over again!” Stiles groaned, but he seemed a bit cheerier, so Derek let it be. “Besides, pack dynamics are nice and all, but we’ve never been a conventional pack, so why start now? Like you’re supposed to walk me back and forth, as long as we’re pack? Stupid. Some of the things that demon said, I swear—.” 

“I’ve heard worse.”

Stiles frowned. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but instead of replying, asked, “Are you staying or not?”

“Sure! You know you’ll have to feed me because I am a growing b—.”

“You’re twenty-three, Stiles, I doubt you’re still growing” Derek pointed out, smirking a little, but headed to the fridge to check the pizzeria’s number. If Derek remembered correctly (he does), Stiles’ comfort food came in white, red and yellow, with copious amounts of pepperoni and mushrooms. “You wanna take a shower?” Stiles gestured pointedly to the black matter staining his clothes. “You can borrow some clothes, if you want—first two drawers in the bedroom.”

Stiles saluted him and headed towards the _en suite_ bathroom in Derek’s room, leaving Derek to tidy up a bit (it beats sitting down, listening to Stiles _showering in his bathroom_ ), folding some laundry, check his wallet for exchange, start up his computer (Stiles probably wants to see a movie) and walk around aimlessly until he heard Stiles come back to the main room of Derek’s home.

At the absence of running commentary from Stiles, as it would be expected, Derek turned to ask what was wrong and his heart stopped – for just a moment, before starting to drum faster as if to compensate the missed beats. To be fair, Stiles’ seemed to be in a similar state. “Stiles—,” Derek started, but really, what could he actually say?

“I looked everywhere for this, you know?” said Stiles, waving his old crimson hoodie. “It was like, my favourite, lots of things happened with this hoodie, werewolf things, and Lydia used to say it made sense, you know, wearing red, running with wolves, little red riding hood, so I wanted to keep it, even it’s a bit small now. I thought I lost it, when I moved to Quantico, you know? You—like, did you take it from my room, did you find it somewhere, what?”

With ears a lot warmer than they should be if he wanted to save face, Derek said, “You left it in the Camaro this one time, before I changed cars. I wanted to give it back.”

Stiles’ cheeks were a bit pink and his eyes were very bright, which made Derek a bit short on breath (he has a werewolf’s physique, for pity’s sake), as he asked, “Why didn’t you?”

“It was a reminder.”

“Of what?

“Good things,” Derek said, shrugging. “Just—good things.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, god! Is it boring? I don't even pretend to have planned this: I wanted to write, so I did. What. -.-


End file.
